Eyes of The Lonely Flower
Has anyone ever noticed a fine daisy?
Sitting in its grass,
watching the world go by.
It cannot do anything
but observe—forced to witness
the people argue,
and watch them dance,
going through a rage of
emotions from a mere phone call.
The daisy is so little in our universe,
like an ant under a heavy,
dusty, navy blue carpet
that covers a royal living room—
but still has a vibrant color and warmth
to make a little girl smile
as she walks toward it,
or an elderly woman
who stands there
and reminisce in memories.
The daisy brings highlight to the eyes,
its yellow burning our darkened pupils
with the reflection of the radiant sun.
But the daisy can only sit there
and watch the world.
The daisy has no choice
but to agree to let it get stepped on
by the army of the population,
or get devoured by helpless animals.
No one thinks to care for it.
After all, it's only a daisy.
The daisy is alone at night
with the exception of the chorus of stars.
That's when they can breathe
the crisp air and find serenity.
But who cares about a daisy?
Their nature is nothing compared to
gadgets and gizmos.
Blinded by the season
of modern production,
No one spends any time outside anymore.
It sees the changes in personalities
as civilians walk past.
The storm in one's heart,
who clueless about showing
the fragments of their pale faces
breaking off in public.
The joy in one's soul,
delighted by the squirrels
running around and the leaves
moving to the tree's melody
in springtime.
The daisy will never understand
how to have an emotional
heart of its own,
For it can only sit there
and watch the world.
